one-on-ones were going awry,
sliding tackles – just plain gory.
I clung to the crossbar, afraid of drowning,
the coach stood still, passive, frowning.
The rain lashed down, it was no joke,
we was receiving quite a soak.
Blind like Wenger, blinder than David James,
just like the “cold winter months” games.
It’s impossible trying to train,
being flung backwards by wind and rain
in our over-sized goals I kept my clean sheet
but everyone had to concede defeat.
Peppered with astro turf,
I go home,
with sponges of gloves,
and a swimming pool in each boot.
The rain stops,
the wind subsides,
but training is off,
we’ve been taken for a ride.